


this (our) side of safe

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, M/M, No Angst, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), ace friendly, just an angel and a demon getting a little closer, or rather the preparation thereof, post apoc a ritz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: After the lunch at the Ritz, Crowley drives Aziraphale home. They're free to do what they want now and Crowley wants a very specific thing: to take his angel out on a proper date.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671922
Comments: 29
Kudos: 79
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	this (our) side of safe

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to akinmytua for beta-reading, providing a crucial tag and cheering me on to finish this up.
> 
> Credit for the title goes to the lovely D20Owlbear.

Lunch at the Ritz has turned into dinner at the Ritz. Dinner at the Ritz has turned into a late evening coffee. A late evening coffee has turned into Crowley giving Aziraphale a lift home and admittedly, neither of them is surprised. It’s the first night of a new world and there is nothing— _nothing, imagine that!_ —to keep them apart.

Crowley knows it and he smiles. His fingers are tapping a joyful rhythm on the steering wheel as he listens to Aziraphale going on about the simple comforts he intends to revel in now that he _can_. It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it?

“You know, I’ve been thinking about going to the cinema,” the angel says. “Not seeing a particular film, just _doing_ it. Buying myself a ticket. Watching something mindless.”

“There’s always the next James Bond,” Crowley suggests.

He doesn’t expect Aziraphale to consider that and yet– the angel tilts his head to the side, a small pout on his lips. Crowley thinks it’s endearing, the long stretch of his neck, his brows gently drawn together.

“Perhaps we could see it together. I’m afraid you would have to fill me in on the details, since I am not entirely familiar with...” He makes a gesture with both hands, spreading them at the windscreen in front of him as if to say _all of this. The new stuff. Popular culture_.

Crowley has to hold back a little, he doesn’t want to seem overeager. “Sure,” he says. “I’ve seen them all since the first one came out.”

“Well, that’s settled then. You know, Crowley, I am very much excited at all the prospects in our future lives. The possibilities. No more reprimands for _frivolous miracles_.”

He does that _thing_ , that wiggle, and it turns Crowley’s heart into a soft mess. He could catalogue every moment, cartograph the regions of his heart where they are safely stored away. They are free to do what they like and he cannot quite believe it yet. The thought that he can go to the cinema with Aziraphale, stand in line and buy a ticket—maybe even share a bucket of popcorn—makes him light-headed with joy.

“I think I’ll travel,” Aziraphale says. “Without Heaven’s supervision, I can go wherever I’d like.” His face brightens with happiness. “And you can too, Crowley, without Hell watching you.”

And that’s where Crowley’s shoulders tense. Of course, he shouldn’t have expected that Aziraphale would always be by his side, just because he _could_. He has hoped, though, that they can spend some time together, only the two of them. It’s not the kind of thing he should bring up, though, no more than a minute away from the bookshop.

“There isn’t anywhere I’d want to go now,” he says instead.

“Oh, of course, there is no place I would want to go _right now_ , either.” Aziraphale stares straight ahead firmly, twisting his ring. “I… I do intend to stay in London for a while longer, after all, we have to see that film together.”

A grin spreads across Crowley’s face and if he hits the brake more gently than usual– well, it might have something to do with that.

“Really?” he asks.

“Anything you’d like,” Aziraphale says, as he mirrors Crowley’s smile.

It only lasts a moment, however, until Aziraphale opens the passenger door. Crowley is quick to follow him, although his legs seem to tremble a little. He feels bubbly and it’s not the champagne’s doing.

Aziraphale has climbed the step to his bookshop already but he lingers there, obviously not intending to go inside. It gives Crowley hope once more, and that might just be the final bit of courage he needs. A slight nervosity is tingling in the back of his neck. He taps his fingers against his thigh, thinks about the right words to say.

“Is everything all right?” Aziraphale asks. He looks genuinely concerned.

Crowley tries for an effortless smile. He doesn’t quite succeed, so he slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers and shrugs. “Yeah. 's just, I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me.”

“Go out? What are you planning?”

Aziraphale’s voice carries a bit of suspicion but the ease of his shoulders betrays him. He is still leaning towards Crowley, none of the usual rigidity he would have assumed just a week ago.

“Nothing much,” Crowley says. “Thought I could invite you for dinner, is all.”

“We've had dinner before.” Aziraphale points out - and there it is again, the small wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Really, Crowley, I don't see why you're making a fuss.”

“Well, we've _eaten_ dinner–”

“ _I've_ eaten. You never do,” Aziraphale interrupts him, albeit gently.

“ _You've_ eaten, whatever. But that was because we ran into each other at a tavern or because we were lazing around the shop and you _got peckish_ –” Aziraphale huffs at Crowley’s mediocre impression of him. “–or because a lunch dragged on into the evening. Point is, we've never actually _gone out_ for dinner.”

“I see. If, let's say, I'd be amenable to go out dining, what _exactly_ do you have in mind?”

Aziraphale smiles and Crowley notices. There’s something wobbly about the lines of his mouth and his knuckles have become pale where his hands are wrung together. He is nervous, or so it would seem. Crowley swallows. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?

“I’d pick a restaurant and call in to make a reservation–”

Aziraphale laughs. “You’d make a reservation? No miracles involved?”

“It’s a fancy restaurant, of course you have to make a reservation,” Crowley sneers but there’s no bite in his voice.

In fact, there is little malice in the entire concept behind it. Sure, he could claim that calling in would block their phone line for quite a while, that he could complain and whine about getting the best table, but that is, strictly speaking, not true at all. Instead, he thinks going the extra mile makes it matter more, this small gesture for Aziraphale.

“It’s a _fancy_ restaurant then,” the angel says, a smirk on his lips. “Well, that’s good to know– I wouldn’t want to risk being underdressed.”

Crowley groans and leans against the ceiling of his car. It seems like a casual thing, something he would do on occasion, without so much as a thought behind it. His rapidly tapping fingers betray him. “You’re never underdressed, angel. You don’t even know what leisurewear is.”

“So we’re well-dressed, what happens next?” Aziraphale begins to toy with the keys in his hands. Even if he doesn’t necessarily _realise_ it, he picks up on Crowley’s nervous tension. It’s a common theme with him, noticing and not noticing all the same.

“I’d pick you up here, doesn’t matter if anybody sees.” He walks over to the angel and lowers his voice, conspiratorially. “Then we have a fine dinner—it’s on me—and I’ll offer to drive you home, where we can have another few glasses of wine. Or we could take a walk, if you’d like that.”

Aziraphale looks at him, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. It makes Crowley’s heart flutter, threatening to burst through his ribcage and throw himself at the angel’s feet.

“You mean in starlight, with no place to go?” Aziraphale asks and moves a little closer.

“If that’s what you’d like.”

Aziraphale bites his lip and a gentle redness spreads across his cheeks. One could call it the faint onset of a blush, blotched around the edges. It’s the most endearing thing Crowley’s ever seen.

“I’d like that very much,” the angel says.

He smiles, a tender and small thing, and for a moment, he sways closer once more. The breath catches in Crowley’s throat; it sends a soft flutter right to his heart instead. The ghost of Aziraphale’s warmth makes his skin tingle, so close and yet far away. It’s the exhilaration a sailor feels upon seeing his home port appear on the horizon, nothing but a faint grey line against the foaming sea, and still more real and more comforting than any foreign hearth could ever be. A tinge of smoke-heavy hellfire clings to his clothes, a stubborn remnant that holds onto him as if to say _you’re free, you’ve tricked them, it’s gonna be alright_.

“My dear Crowley,” Aziraphale says, in a tone that Crowley will come to file under _R_ for _reverent_ (but that’s the subject of another story, a story yet to tell).

And with that whisper, the warmth of him is gone. Aziraphale turns and fits the key, a half-smile still on his lips. It’s a never-fading thing, not today, when they could both sing with joy ( _We’re free, free to do whatever we like, could you believe it?_ ).

Crowley clears his throat in an attempt for nonchalance. It’s a failed attempt, but it’s the gesture that matters, right? Pretend at least that you can keep your overflowing adoration contained. “Yeah. Guess I’ll call you?”

“If that’s all right by you?” Aziraphale casts him a look over his shoulder. It says a million things and yet none of them clearer than this: _I don’t want this to fade into nothing. It matters to me and I hope it matters to you, too._ He says precisely none of that and opts for a gentle smile instead. “Good-night, Crowley!”

Six-thousand years of barely staying on this side of safe cannot be undone that easily. Crowley understands. He understands as he watches him slip inside, understands as he walks back to his car and sits there for a few minutes, unable to think with the multitude of words twirling around his head.

It’s all right after all, isn’t it? They’re free to do what they want, in their own world, and for once it seems that Aziraphale wants _exactly_ what Crowley wants to do and there’s nobody between them to tell them otherwise.

And if anybody were to tell Crowley that’s not enough, he would call him a fool. It’s more than he could ever have hoped for and yet— 

Yet it’s only the beginning of a life much grander than he dared imagine.

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of this is a result of the Post-Apocalypse prompt from the Ineffable Husbands week, which I already posted on my tumblr, @under-a-linden-tree. Check the other ones out, if you'd like.


End file.
